


Blue Stuffed Camel

by valantha



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Coulson being a sweetheart, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, May being a stuffed-animal-regifting ninja, Post-Bahrain, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 12:45:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2622260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valantha/pseuds/valantha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Melinda May lost herself that day in Manama. She had saved the day, saved the girl, saved the team, all with a comminuted ulnar fracture and several broken ribs, but she had lost her self. Afterward, Phil tried to save <i>her</i>. It didn't work, but he'd just keep trying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Stuffed Camel

May traced the spider-webbing of hairline cracks through drywall of the hospital wall. It had been painted a hideous ‘soft mint’ or ‘spring mist’ green sometime in the last decade but the ostensibly soothing and healing color was simply there – a detail logged in her brain.

She was curled over on her side – to the best of her limited mobility given her cast and ankle brace – all the better to ignore the babblings of her roommate and his visitors. The poor sod was a level two administrative agent in the wrong place at the wrong time and he’d had a constant stream of loved ones and co-workers come through to keep him occupied ever since he and his leg had stabilized enough for visitors.

Despite what he might think, she wasn’t jealous. She’d had her share of visitors come by in previous weeks to mouth useless platitudes and surface-level gratitude, but she’d driven them all away. They were better off without her. Without her bloodstained hands and pain-sharpened tongue. Or perhaps opiate-lowered-inhibitions-sharpened tongue might be a better term. She preferred the pain to the muzzy-headiness and distance of morphine. She could handle pain.  

Pain was her constant companion.

Pain was her gift.

“How are you doing today May?” an unwelcome voice asked. She hadn’t heard the door open over the babble of the visitors; she was getting sloppy.

May rolled over – being cautious about her arm, the last thing she wanted was to be yelled at by the doctors for not taking care of herself, again; she’d had quite enough of that already – and met Phil’s overly-cheerful face. Today he was carrying a stuffed dromedary camel, having clearly not gotten the picture the past 27 times.

May watched stone-faced as he settled the blueberry-colored camel on her nightstand. She’d driven away all but two of her visitors – her mother was naturally exempt, and Phil was oblivious. Her mother had dealt with her at her worst (those awful teenaged years; how she'd refrained from shipping her daughter off to boarding spy-school, May would never know) and had more than her share of blood on her hands. She could handle anything May dished out; _she_ could handle the monster May had become.

But Phil; Phil was a different story. Phil was strong and true, untarnished by the life he’d led, the lives he’d taken. Still optimistic and curious despite all the suffering he’d seen, despite the hard calls he’d had to make. May didn’t want to taint him, but all her attempts to drive him away had been unsuccessful. He was just too damn steadfast.

Phil settled down into the visitor’s chair and talked agency gossip – the unclassified interpersonal crap he knew she had no time for – yet it was comforting to hear his voice, knowing he didn’t require a response. She settled in, on her back, cradling her thrice broken arm, unwilling to give him too much encouragement. She didn’t say one world to him, just let his voice wash over her. After he had run out of tales of what Sitwell and Tanner, Barton and Blake, Romanoff and Hill had been up to; he segued to stories about reality TV shows and celebrities. Stuff she really had no interest in. It didn’t really matter.

He just wanted to talk; he just needed to talk. In the beginning he had actually tried to talk sense, had tried to tell her to get over Bahrain, had tried to get her to accept that had happened Bahrain and move on. He wasn’t successful. Clearly. He couldn’t fix her. That was impossible. But now he just talked, trying to fill the empty void within her soul with babble. It didn’t work. Clearly. But it was nice to hear his voice, and in a small, secret part of herself, she was glad she hadn’t managed to drive Coulson away. This small part was happy there was someone she could depend on, someone who cared enough to try to override her apathy. The rest of herself was ashamed of her selfishness; she didn’t deserve it. Her shrink tried to convince her otherwise, but what did she know, with all of her self-care crap.

After exactly an hour Phil left, as he always did, with a plea for her to call him if she needed anything, day or night. Once he was completely gone, she grimaced. She tolerated his presence, even enjoyed it, but heaven help her, she was not selfish enough to drag his bright optimism down with her. He was better off without her. If he continued to come by, well she couldn’t really stop it, but she wasn’t about to call him when she was feeling low at 2 am, unable to sleep between her dueling pains. She wasn’t _that_ selfish.

Late that night, she stroked the soft blue fur of the camel before pulling it into a one-armed hug and creeping out of her room, past her doped out roommate. She crept past the SHIELD-approved medical staff to the unsecured stairwell and up to the fifth floor. From there it was a piece of cake to get into the locked Pediatric Oncology playroom. She deposited the blue camel on top of the pile of stuffed animals: a pink giraffe, a purple panda, even a chartreuse moose. The pile had ‘mysteriously’ grown steadily, with a few animals disappearing into their forever homes and some fewer (sadder) animals returning to the pile after an absence of a week or two. The pile was a symbol of the annoyingly dependable nature of Phil’s love, and his quirky sense of style. Where was he even getting these toys?

As she ghosted out of the playroom, she spared one fleeting glance at the pile of stuffed animals. Phil was an odd man.


End file.
